“Do you think I shall die? I never thought of that,” said Hugh. And he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again.
“No; I do not think you will die.”
“Will they think so at home? Was that the reason they were sent to?”
“No: I have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you: but—”
“To comfort me? Why, Mr Tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and I should be asleep to-night.”
“Yes; but though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame. That will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you.”
“Lame!” said the boy. Then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle’s face, he saw the truth.
“Oh! Uncle, they are going to cut off my leg.”
“Not your leg, I hope, Hugh. You will not be quite so lame as that: but I am afraid you must lose your foot.”
“Was that what Mr Tooke meant by the surgeon’s relieving me of my pain?”